Aces and Napkins
by Webster
Summary: After "Dead in the Water," Dean gets sick.  Of course, he'd never admit it.


Dean shivered and pulled his jacket tighter around his shoulders. Though they'd dried off and changed clothes before leaving, he still hadn't managed to warm up. As he merged onto the Interstate, the engine temperature finally rose high enough that he could nudge the heat on.

Sam was already asleep, head lolling against the passenger window. Dean's own eyelids dipped in sympathy, but he knew if he closed them, he'd still see the waters closing over Bill Carleton or the Sheriff. It'd take a few hours of driving to work the hunt out of his blood.

They made a solid hundred miles before he pulled off to find a gas station, and Sam managed to sleep the entire time. Which was about as much rest as the kid ever got, these days. Dean kept cranking up the heat, but he still felt chilly. He'd have to check out the heater soon.

As Dean rolled up to the pump, his brother started awake. "Mfff," he muttered. "Where are we?"

"Gas station," Dean replied, grinning.

Sam glared back, unimpressed. "You want me to drive for a while, so you can get some sleep?"

"Not a bad idea. Figure we can hole up as soon as we get to Illinois."

Sam settled into the driver's seat and grabbed a sandwich from the tray Lucas and his mother had prepared. "You want something?"

"I had some." Dean answered. "Enjoy."

Though Dean would never admit it out loud, the first sandwich was still sitting uncomfortably in his stomach-Lucas was a great kid, but he apparently liked mayo even more than Dean did, and hadn't provided enough turkey to soak it up.

Dean sat down in the space Sam had just vacated and pulled his jacket up over his head. As he drifted off to sleep, the last thing he heard was Sam grousing, "Why'd you turn up the heat so high, anyway?"

When Dean woke again, the car had finally warmed up. Which was a little strange, because the door was wide open, with Sam bending down to stare through it. In fact, Dean was too warm, and he batted at the jacket covering his face.

"Uh, Dean? You gonna get out?" Sam poked his shoulder. "Hey, are you okay?"

"I'm coming," was what Dean meant to say, but it came out as a croak. He coughed twice, then cleared his throat.

"What's up?" Dean tried again. His voice was still rough, but the words came out clearly enough.

"What's up with you?" Sam frowned down at him.

"Tired." Dean growled. "Aren't you?"

"Well, you can sleep in a bed now. We're in Illinois."

"It's," Dean squinted. "Five o'clock in the afternoon, Sam. Time to check the lay of the land and stake out a bar for tonight. We're a little low on cash." Grinning, he swung out of the car.

Two hours later, they'd located the town's two gambling dens and found a motel two towns over. It was close enough to make for an easy trip at the end of the night, far enough to provide a clean escape. They checked in and glanced at the room, making sure it wasn't occupied, flooded or haunted. By this point, Dean's head was throbbing, he seemed to be shivering and sweating at the same time, and his bed, with its brown linty bedspread, looked pretty damned inviting.

Resolutely NOT looking at the bed, lest it suck him in, he clapped Sam on the shoulder and shoved him toward the car.

"I'll get dinner at that bar with the green sign, you eat at the diner down the street, then head in after about a half-hour. Take a seat in the left rear corner. Don't bring the laptop."

Sam scowled. "You know, there are other ways to earn cash."

"We do what we gotta do, Sammy."

After dropping his brother off at the diner, Dean leaned forward and rested his head against the steering wheel, ice cold fingers pressed to his burning forehead. His throat felt raw and his nose itched.

"Eh-choo! Eh-choo!" Dean's head jerked up and back down. "Gross," he muttered, wiping off the steering wheel. And the dashboard. Finally, Dean took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and strode into the bar. Dean chose his table with care, checking for the exits, proximity to the kitchen and the booze, and a clear line of sight for Sam, once he arrived. Then he scowled at the empty napkin dispenser and snatched a full one from the next table.

Four hundred dollars richer, Dean snatched the last napkin from the dispenser and turned his head away from the table to let out a burst of sneezes.

"Look, guys, I'm sorry to cut things short, but I'm kinda not feeling so great, here, so I'm gonna take my germs off somewhere else."

Sam followed him out the door, watching Dean's poker victims. Rather than anger, they seemed to be showing... amused sympathy? Sure enough, they were laughing, pouring another round of beer out of the pitcher and yelling, "You get better and come on back, now!"

Apparently, Dean's charm could work on men, when he so chose.

Outside, Sam found his brother leaning against the door of the car, coughing with a deep, rattling sound.

"That's one way to make an exit."

The coughing continued.

"Dean? I don't think they're watching any more. Let's get out of here."

The coughing trailed off at last, leaving Dean panting for air. Sam frowned, laying a hand on the side of his brother's neck.

"Dean! You've got a fever." A gear seemed to catch in Sam's head. "You've been feeling really sick all day, haven't you?" Not waiting for an answer, he grabbed the keys, placed a firm hand in the middle of Dean's back, and marched him around through the passenger door.

The drive back to the motel was broken only by the sound of Dean's sniffling until they pulled into the parking lot.

"You know, you are allowed to take the night off once in a while," Sam pointed out.

"Naw. Spoil my rep," Dean rasped.

"I won't tell. Come on, dude. There's an ugly brown bed with your name on it."


End file.
